


Stains of over indulgence on a wine coloured carpet

by Keepoffthegrass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied Sexual Content, Other, non graphic off screen incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keepoffthegrass/pseuds/Keepoffthegrass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reason for the animosity between the holmes brothers is revealed</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stains of over indulgence on a wine coloured carpet

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea in my head for a couple of weeks now and I'm reasonably pleased with it, although not really lol-i have good ideas I just can't write good( I feel like jeff buckley: I can sing the crap out of anything but how do I say it?) which is why it would be nice to work with someone on something sometime....I guess this is me thinking of some reason for why the bbc relationship is so troubled when I personally feel they get on ok in canon.  
> I hope I put in enough tags to warn those that may be triggered/upset by this and that the ending feels like a happy one-that it isn't too late for Sherlock and Mycroft to rebuild a relationship.  
>  This also came about because I kept reading fics where Sherlock seemed to be at home rather late which I don't agree with seeing as English kids can start boarding school as early as 7-my only excuse for his lateness here is (plot device lol) the fact he needed a bit more time to realise you can't blurt out people's life stories as soon as you meet them.

“Why can't you be more like Mycroft?!”  
  
It was a week after Sherlock's tenth birthday and as such mummy was no longer under any such constraints as politeness. Looking at him, with his angelic curls and piano-players hands, outsiders always assumed that Sherlock, the youngest and the fairest, was the favourite which couldn't have been further from the truth.  
  
Scowling hard so as not to let any tears fall Sherlock ran away from the kitchen and up the stairs to his fathers study; which is where Holmes senior found him several hours later, lying on the wine coloured carpet next to a puddle of vomit and an empty box of marron glacé.  
  
“Sherlock why did you eat the whole box?” his father asked as he scooped him up and carried him to the bathroom.  
  
“Because it's what Mycroft would have done” he sniffed as the damp flannel wiped his face roughly.  
  
“Who says you have to be like your brother?” his father dried his face quickly before shepherding him to his blue-painted room.  
  
“Everyone wishes I was; mother does, even you do”  
  
“I don't wish that Sherlock I don't...but if you really wanted to be more like him...”  
  
“I would! I mean he's all right, it wouldn't be so bad being like My and it would make mummy happy”

His father smiled and smoothed his hair “Mycroft used to do something for me which he can't do now he's older. Would you like to try?”  
  
Sherlock thought about it before nodding “Can we try tomorrow? Only I feel sick still”  
  
“Of course! Get better first. Good night Sherlock, remember I love you”  
   
   
                                                               ....  
   
“I don't want to go”  
  
“Mummy is dying Sherlock! The least you can do is pretend you care before she goes”  
  
“Fine I'll go but I'm not staying and I'm taking John with me”  
   
                                                                  ***  
   
Sherlock was silent and tense on the journey, sitting ram-rod straight, fists clenched as tightly as a dead man's. John had felt compelled to prise his fingers open. “You're hurting yourself” he gently pointed out the bloodied crescents on Sherlock's palm.  
  
“I don't enjoy going home” Sherlock smiled tightly.  
   
                                                                         ....  
   
The first thing Sherlock noticed upon entering his father's study a couple of days later was that the Persian rug had been folded and moved to one side. The maids had placed it there once it had proved impossible to entirely remove the stain from Sherlock's vomit.  
  
“In case we make a mess” Sherlock's father had noticed where his sons gaze had fallen and so answered the unspoken question.  
  
“I don't understand; why would we make a mess?”  
  
“You'll find out, just remember I won't be angry if you do”  
   
   
                                                                ***  
   
“The doctor's don't think she'll have long, a month at most” Mycroft informed his brother as he reclined in their father's chair in the study.  
“We should decide what to do with this place... Poor old mummy; look, she keeps a fresh box of marron glacé in the drawer...father's favourites. There perfectly in date too” Mycroft peered at the back of the box “Care for one?”  
  
“No. Sell the house, the grounds-all of it. Burn it for all I care”  
  
Mycroft laughed “No I don't suppose you will ever eat them again, father told me all about you making yourself sick...I was quite the role model to you at one point” for a moment Mycroft looked sad but it soon passed. “No I don't think I could sell it, not yet anyway”  
  
Sherlock snorted “Sentiment Mycroft? And you always said caring isn't an advantage!”  
  
“I meant outside of the family Sherlock, and besides with our delicate professions we might find we have need of a refuge at some point”  
  
“I'd rather die than set foot here again!”  
  
“Why must you always be so melodramatic?”  
  
“Is everything ok? I heard shouting” John lingered in the doorway.  
  
“It has been a long day and I think it has affected Sherlock more than we realised it would. If you would be so kind as to take him to bed please John?”  
   
   
                                                                    ....  
   
“So we are finally unleashing you on the big wide world Sherlock. Excited?”  
  
“Yes father” As was his habit now Sherlock's eyes flicked to the rug. It was folded back.  
  
“We won't see you until the holidays, we'll miss you. Will you miss us?”  
  
“Yes father”  
  
“We'll have to make today extra special won't we?”  
  
“Yes father”  
   
   
                                                         ***  
   
John stood in front of the French window taking in the view and trying to imagine what it would have been like growing up in a place such as the Holmes estate. Mrs Holmes had been sleeping the entire time he and Sherlock had been sitting besides her bed but now he thought she must have at last woken because he heard Sherlock talking to her.  
  
“Mummy it's Sherlock, listen to me carefully because I want you to remember this, I want you to take it to the grave.  
  
John frowned, he knew there wasn't much love there but that sounded like a harsh thing to say to an old lady who would soon be dead.  
  
“Father used to get his pleasure somewhere else...  
  
“Sherlock!” John reprimanded.  
  
“He preferred someone younger...”  
  
“Sherlock get out here now!” Mycroft thundered.  
  
“What the hell do you think you were doing? What were you hoping to achieve with that childish display?”  
  
“She deserves to know the truth doesn't she?” Sherlock huffed.  
  
“What truth? Why couldn't you be more like me just for a few days? You've squandered all your gifts, all your intelligence, broken mummy's heart more times than I can count...what is wrong with you?”  
  
“Lets all have a time out ok?” John suggested.  
  
“You don't get it do you? I want to be nothing like you! I stopped wanting to be like you one week and three days after my tenth birthday. Wanting to be like you ruined my life!”  
Sherlock stomped off and John advised Mycroft to give him a moment alone, a decision overruled once they heard the sound of smashing glass and goodness knows what else. They both ran to the study where Sherlock had proceeded to throw the photos and certicficates off the walls, sweep everything off the desk and tear assunder books from their bindings.  
He was flinging up the rug when they burst in, looking and sounding not disimilar to a bull in a ring.

Despite the chaos in the room, or perhaps because of it, Mycroft chose to focus on that. “I wondered why that rug was put there” he sniffed snobbishly “What is that mess? Why didn't anyone get it professionally cleaned?”  
  
“Perhaps father wanted a momento for when I was at school, or a kind of actors mark like those crosses on the floor? Like the outline of bodies at crime scenes, police tape...where did you and he? The reading room at the back of the library, of course! There is a rug there...” Sherlock was mostly talking to himself and Mycroft couldn't help exchanging a worried glance with John.  
  
“What is it? Surely you can remember Mycroft; it must have been the same for you? Vomit from the sweets, saliva, father's semen, tears, more vomit, whiskey, my semen...”  
  
“What are you trying to say Sherlock?” Mycroft whispered.  
  
“I killed father, right there on that patch of carpet in front of the fire”  
  
“No Sherlock you didn't”  
  
“Yes I did; I was fourteen at home for easter break. I went to the study like father wanted and the rug was pulled back, and I told him it was over-I was going to tell mummy what he made me do, what he made us do! He had a heart attack because I didn't call for help and I didn't fetch his pills. I killed him and I felt absolutely nothing”

 

John tuned out the words and let the doctor take over, noticing that Sherlock was breathing too fast and had turned even paler than usual. Wordlessly he gently pushed him into a chair and wrapped a throw over his shoulders.  
  
“When I knew he was dead I put the rug back and then I screamed as loud as I could until the servants and mummy came. I told them I popped into the study to let father know I was back from school and I found him lying there...it was so easy! And I kept expecting to feel relieved or angry or sad even but I just felt empty and I still feel like that”  
  
“Sherlock, father never did anything to me” Mycroft spoke slowly, hestitatingly.  
  
“You must be in denial then, he told me...”  
  
“No Sherlock I'm not in denial. I swear to you father never touched me”  
  
“Why would he lie to me?”  
  
“I expect because he knew it was the only way to get you to agree...I am so sorry Sherlock, I'm so so sorry” As Mycroft crossed the room and went down on his knees to embrace his brother Sherlock finally fell apart. As John slipped out of the room he never in a million years thought that such a broken sound could be made by Sherlock.  
   
                                                                      ***  


Mycroft slipped his phone back into his pocket and stood for awhile under an ancient oak tree that he recalled Sherlock climbing as a boy. He had just made arangements to take a long overdue holiday to deal with his mother's funeral and Sherlock's revelations, and truth be told he was rather grateful that doctor Watson was there so he didn't have to cope with it entirely by himself. Soon the three of them should take a vacation somewhere, Crete perhaps.  
Walking back to the house he felt a sudden urge to see their father's grave which was in the grounds of the house, mummy being unable to part with him. Evidently Sherlock had felt the same as he and John were there, backs facing Mycroft.  
  
“I don't know about you Sherlock but I for one really need a piss, too much coffee I think. If you don't mind?” John asked politely as he unzipped his jeans.  
  
“Not at all. I think I'll join you”  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes at the immature action but as the urine hit his father's headstone he stood next to Sherlock and joined his brother. Sometimes the simplest gestures were the best.


End file.
